This Can't Be Real, You Can't Be Gone
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: What if Sherlock was protecting four people when he jumped instead of three? What if he and John were married and had a little boy named Hamish? And how will Hamish cope with out his beloved Papa? The journey from funeral to reunion with the addition of Hamish. Awful summary, the story is way better. Rated T for later chapters. Johnlock, obviously.
1. Chapter 1

**I've been dealing with some writer's block lately, so I decided to start something new to get my mind of things. **

**Basically, this is a Post-Riechenbach with established Johnlock and Hamish (who is Sherlock's biological son via surrogate) and who is basically a mini-Sherlock, from his looks to his intelligence. He's probably around 4 in this story.**

**Anyway, I'm just trying this out for now, but I'll continue it if people enjoy :)**

**Warning- general angst, funerals and whatnot, depression, etc...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, the BBC does...**

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At first John had been afraid.

He didn't think anyone would show up really, for the funeral. Not after...not after...everything...came to light.

He thought it would just be a simple, quiet affair.

Hamish was seated on his knee, solemn and quiet in his heartbreakingly tiny black suit. Mrs. Hudson was there, wearing a dark dress and sniffling into a cloth handkerchief. Molly was sitting next to her, looking tired and small and nervous. Mycroft was next to her at the end of the small row, sitting stiffly in his best suit. His face remained stoic, refusing to show emotion. He was still ice, but it looked like he wanted to break down sobbing. Lestrade sat closest to the coffin (bare of all flowers because Sherlock had always hated them) at John's right, messing with his too tight black necktie, loosening it and glancing back and forth at John. Harry was there too, she'd been staying with John and Hamish past week in an attempt to help look after Hamish. She was seated on her brother's other side, gripping his weathered hand tightly in her own small one. She had driven out the moment she heard about Sherlock. She had to be there for her brother, no matter how strained their relationship had been in the past. It was a time for new beginnings.

The people seated in the first row along with him were the only people John had expected to come. He just couldn't imagine why anyone else would show up. He'd expected perhaps a few of his friends from work would show up to pay their respects. They'd never really known Sherlock though, it was just the right thing to do. Sometimes it felt like nobody had know Sherlock. Especially now. Sherlock had been estranged from most of his family since he was a teenager, so they weren't there, only Mycroft. He'd never had many friends or even acquaintances either. Most people chose to keep their distance, and he'd never made it any easier. He had shut people out and used his eccentric personality as a shield. John expected a grand total of eight people to come to Sherlock's funeral.

He was wrong.

Because John was now vaguely aware that the were quite a lot of people bustling around him. So many that they had filled all the chairs that were set up and were now standing in the back. There were a lot of people. Old and young. Parents holding onto the hands of little children. They were all dressed in dark clothes and whispering to each other, staying as silent as possible.

"Who...who are all these people?" John asked, leaning closer to Lestrade and shifting Hamish to his other knee.

Lestrade looked around too before replying, "I recognize some of 'em, I think they're people he helped out on cases. Some of the are probably fans of the blog too."

John felt his brow furrow. Fans? They still had fans? He vaguely remembered making a short blog post a few days after...after it had happened. He hadn't checked the blog in the week since. Maybe he didn't know what was going on.

John thought everyone was under the impression that Sherlock was a lie. He thought everyone hated him. After his final words, after his final actions...John had been so sure.

The media were certainly vultures, trying to attack John at every turn. Trying to get him to admit that his husband had been a liar, a fraud.

Of course he didn't believe a single, solitary word they said. He never, ever would.

Sherlock had been real, John was sure of it. He had been so very real, more real than any one person John had ever know. Real, yes, painfully so. But so very very complicated. People had never understood him in life. Sometimes it felt like nobody had really known him, not even his own brother. The world had categorized Sherlock in two very separate ways, the enigma and the psychopath. Some tabloids painted him as this ethereal, wan man whose entire life revolved around case work. With his cheekbones and coat, it wasn't really a difficult picture to paint. He had been nothing more than smoke in their eyes, a fleeting wisp that disappeared at first sign of light from their cameras. But then there was the monster some had made him out to be. The man that many had chosen to see had been the psychopath, the man obsessed with crime and criminals alike. The man that deduced your well kept secrets with a single glance. No matter how many children and mothers and fathers he saved, no matter how many priceless pieces of art work he saved, no matter how many families he gave peace, he was still ever the same in the eyes of his critics. And so they kept on painting their pictures, the vulture who scavenged the Yard's cases or the ghost lying waiting in the shadows. Few ever managed to see past the grim, ethereal figure in the flowing black coat that dashed around London, chasing after the scum of the city for what were now deemed to be his own purposes. They had always seen someone more monster than man.

The media had never gotten to see Sherlock for who he really was. Those who read the blog had a few, fleeting glimpses, of course, but that meant little. Sherlock had been a damaged soul, yes, that was obvious. Someone who had faced demons far greater than the average man. But people had never seen Sherlock the way John had. They'd never been there on the lazy Sunday mornings when the two of them would just lie in bed together, sharing sweet, slow kisses, content to stay in each other's arms. Sleepy Sherlock had always been the best, reduced to nothing more than a mewing little kitten in the mornings, sighing and snuggling into his love;s chest as John carded his fingers through the detective's tangled hair. On those few and far between lazy mornings, they would just stay in bed until Hamish managed to stumble up the steps to their room, bursting into their room clad in his pyjamas. He'd clamber up the bed with boundless energy and nearly attack his Daddy and Papa with hugs and kisses and giggles. The rest of the world never got to see Sherlock and Hamish together. They never got to see the usually stoic detective converse with the rapidly growing little boy, feeding the boy's wild imagination and embracing all his little quirks. They never came home to an utter mess of the kitchen after Sherlock had taken Hamish to Tesco and let him pick out his own food for dinner, a dish which Hamish had deemed "pasta with jam sauce". They never got to see the duo passed out on the sofa, wearing paper pirate hats after an exciting day of playing pretend. They never knew Sherlock the husband, Sherlock the father. Most people didn't understand.

John was shaken from his daze by Lestrade giving him a pat on the shoulder. John checked his watch, it was time to start.

He gave Lestrade a short nod while hugging Hamish a little closer, feeling the little boy squirm to get more comfortable.

Lestrade got up and made his way to the small podium near the bare coffin. He straightened his suit jacket before giving John a quick look and beginning in a nervous voice, "I-I once said that Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and that one day, if we were very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. I was never really sure if that would happen...but now I can say that I know he managed to become one. When I met him several years ago...he was alone in every sense of the word. I don't...I don't really know what drew me to him. There was something about him that I couldn't place...I just, I don't know. I was absolutely floored by his intelligence, everyone was. He always made it known. There was something so infuriatingly incredible about him, and I'm...I'm glad that I could call him something of a friend. I've seen him at his absolute bottom, but...over the past few years, I've seen him...I've seen him grow, I've seen him come to his absolute highest. And I...I know that was due to-to John. From the very beginning...I was routing for you guys. I saw the way he looked at you and I saw the way you looked at him. I'd never seen him open up to someone so easily, not in the five years that I'd known him. I always felt like it was inevitable. John...you changed him in the most amazing ways, you made him something to be proud of. You made him into a good man. And...and I know that his-his death came as a shock, and I-I know that you...you must blame yourself at least a little. I blame myself too. Sometimes I wish this was all just a dream and that I could wake up and he would still be there. He should still be here, for John and for his son. I-I should never ever have doubted him, not even for a moment, and I-I hold blame onto myself. But I know that he was real, I know he wasn't a fraud. I also know that that I'm going to miss him a lot...I miss him right now. I know a lot of people will miss him..." Lestrade faltered at the end, sweeping his eyes over the massive crowd of people. He added a quick thank you at the end before taking his seat.

After that point, everything seemed to fade for John. He found himself only half listening to the rest of the speeches, picking out only a few words. Several of the men and women Sherlock had helped over the course of his career came up to speak. Recounting the crowd what Sherlock had done for them and how much the man had meant to them, despite the fact that they had just barely known him. They all said that they still believed in Sherlock Holmes, that no tabloid magazine or improperly sourced article could ever change their mind of that because they had seen the man in action. Many of them said that they were going to try and get other people to understand this, they were going to start a crusade to get the rest of the world to believe in Sherlock Holmes too. They said they were going to try their hardest to clear his name and make it so that his poor little boy would never be bullied about his father.

By the time they made their way to the last words (Mycroft's, a very emotional but very small speech, all the ice man could manage before tears started misting in his eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall), John was a wreck. But not physically. He was, of course, crying. Tears had been dripping down his cheeks for nearly the entirety of the funeral. Hell, he'd been crying on and off for the past week. Sometimes the tears would just come out of nowhere and he would be reduced to a sobbing mess. Harry would hug him then and let him sob into her shoulder. But he tried not to do that too often, it scared Hamish...

The service ended soon after Mycroft's final parting words. The droves of people slowly dissipated, some coming up closer to the coffin to pay their final respects before leaving. But John stayed firmly placed in his chair, without the energy to move.

Gently, Lestrade and Mary coaxed him out of his seat and closer to the coffin. He stood Hamish on the hard dirt in front of the coffin, kneeling next to the little boy and pulling him in a tight one-armed hug as the tears dripped faster down his face. He turned his head slightly to regard his son, his little boy, whose's eyes were misty and red. The little boy sniffled and looked sadly over at his Daddy.

Everyone else had left, giving John gentle pats on the back before heading back to 221B with Mrs. Hudson and Harry, presumably for tea. John and Hamish were left standing/kneeling there all alone. They'd given them a little privacy, a little space. John was thankful for this. It felt like the first time he and Hamish had been truly alone together since it had happened, save when they were in bed...

John wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. This wasn't fair. Sherlock shouldn't be gone. He couldn't be. John still needed him. He needed him so so much. Hamish needed him too, he needed his genius Papa that taught him about science and read him French storybooks. John wanted to scream and cry properly, he wanted to curl up next to Sherlock's headstone and forget the world existed, but he knew he couldn't. No matter how gray things got, he couldn't give up. He had to stay strong for Hamish...for Hamish...because Hamish needed him...

But no, right now he was a mess in his mind. His last words to his husband kept replaying in his mind, the last words he'd said to the man he loved before they'd made their final remarks with Sherlock on the rooftop. They wouldn't stop, he wasn't sure if they would ever stop. He couldn't shake the words from his head. He couldn't shake Sherlock's final, final words either. They were burned into his brain.

Goodbye, John. And tell Hamish I love him.

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**Who got the pasta and jam sauce joke? Argh, Misha Collins and Wes are just to adorable for words!**

**Also, special thanks to RainyDays-and-DayDreams for taking a look at this for me :)**

**Please please please leave a review and let me know what you think! I won't continue unless people want me to.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again everyone :)**

**So I know I'm pretty late on the whole Post-Reichenbach things, but I really like writing this.**

**Hope you all enjoy and please tell me what you think...**

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John took a few minutes to collect himself.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

They were shaky at first, shuddering deep in his chest.

It felt like forever before his breathing finally evened out. Slowly, he dried his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and turned to his son, pulling the small boy closer and giving him a soft kiss on the forehead.

"Goodbye, love," he whispered under his breath.

He didn't want this to be goodbye. Oh God, he didn't want this to be his goodbye.

He'd never gotten a proper one. Most people didn't, not in situations like this.

It still hurt so much, not being able to really say goodbye. Having to say goodbye to the casket, to have to talk to the headstone. There hadn't even been time before...before he'd jumped. John had never gotten to say goodbye.

It was all such a blur in his mind. One minute Sherlock had been on the roof, speaking words that John could scarcely remember. The next minute he was on the pavement.

John couldn't remember much of the moments before Sherlock had jumped, could barely remember what the man he loved had said or done in his last few minutes, save his final words, but everything after was etched into his mind forever. The feelings would never leave him. That split second as he fell, the black coat he'd loved so very much billowing around the falling form. That screaming moment of fear and the ringing in his ears. He remembered running, then being knocked down and just lying there for a few seconds in a complete daze. Struggling to get up and staggering blindly towards his husband. Pushing past the gathering crowd. Shouting for the onlookers to let him through in a pained voice. Frantically grabbing at his love's wrist, looking for a pulse. Hoping to God that there would be a pulse. Knowing there wasn't a pulse. There was too much blood. He remembered the blood so clearly, his husband's blood, staining the pavement. Leaking out and pooling under the man's dark curls. It had been so red and so bold against the pale skin and the gray cement. He remembered being pulled away, having his husband ripped from his grip. Being lowered to the ground. Seeing the man he loved whisked away by some stretcher that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

He could never wipe the image of Sherlock's face from his mind, chalk white and streaked with blood at the temples. His pale eyes open and unseeing, unfocused. It was the last time he'd seen Sherlock's face.

He didn't remember much after that though, just fragments. Flashing lights and ambulances and police officers and reporters with their cameras, so many cameras, all buzzing and harassing officers for information on the news story probably sweeping the media. Suicide of fake genius.

Lestrade, looking positively sick himself, showed up with the other officers, promptly tearing John away from the flashing camera bulbs, bringing the catatonic man back home. Mrs. Hudson watched Hamish that night, trying to placate the little boy who didn't yet understand why Uncle Lestrade didn't want to play or why Nan was crying or why his Daddy was so quiet or why his Papa wasn't home yet even though he should be.

Lestrade had gone to identify the body very late that night in the morgue, after Harry had arrived. Nobody wanted to leave John right now, and they knew he couldn't be brought to Barts. John couldn't bear to do it, couldn't go back to that place or see his husband so cold and lifeless. Couldn't see him dead.

The funeral preparations went quickly, Mycroft took care of it. Simple, nothing fancy. After all, nobody had expected more than ten or fifteen people to show up. They'd decided on a closed casket too. It was an easy decision. Nobody else wanted to see Sherlock like that either.

So John was left with that image of his husband, that last image. Bloodstained and pale and broken on the pavement.

And it left him trying his hardest to remember their other last moments. The happy ones, the ones that should have been able to make him smile.

The last time he saw Sherlock smile. The last time they kissed. Their last lazy morning in bed. The last time Sherlock had surprised him with dinner after a long day at work and the last time John had said I love you. The last time Sherlock read to Hamish, or held him, or kissed him too.

Sometimes it felt like he couldn't remember Sherlock for who he had been. It felt like an eternity ago, the last time he'd seen the man really, truly happy. He was like all the good memories he'd had with that brilliant man were consumed the side of Sherlock he had seen during the his final days.

He'd been tense beyond belief, stressed out by the whole situation with Moriarty.

Sherlock had been angry too, and so undeniably afraid.

Terrified his husband would leave him and take their child with him, terrified the man he loved would think him a fraud because the spider at the middle of the web wouldn't stop whispering and planting his seeds of doubt.

John couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his husband so scared.

He couldn't make the thoughts stop. It felt like he would never be able to remember his husband with a smile.

Everything was numb now. Everything was dark and gray without the man who had given him light so many years ago.

So, just as John felt like he was calming down, felt like he could go face the rest of the world, he felt the tears stream down his face yet again.

He wiped them away angrily. He had to hold it together. He had to hold it together and stop thinking these horrible things.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Sherlock was real. He was real and he loved you. He really really loved you and everything that happened wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

It was his mantra now, he had to keep reminding himself that Sherlock had loved him to starve away

It took several more minutes to calm down enough to even consider moving.

John let out a shaky breathe and looked over his shoulder. Nobody had come to find them yet, it meant they still had a little more time. Slowly, very slowly, he straightened himself out, adjusting his coat before picking up Hamish again.

The boy wrapped his thin arms tightly around his Daddy's neck, burying his face in his parent's neck.

John could feel little drops of wetness at his collar.

The two picked their way through the small dirt and gravel paths of the cemetery. The plot they'd chosen for Sherlock was in a secluded corner, surrounded by tress. It would be good for visits, nice and quiet.

Finally, Hamish and John made their way to the main road. There was a black cab waiting for them. Harry was probably waiting inside for them, she wouldn't have left yet. Mrs. Hudson was probably one her way back to Baker Street already with Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft. Nobody wanted to leave John alone right now, so they'd just stay for tea.

John opened the door, and, sure enough, Harry was sitting on the far side of the cab when he slid in, Hamish in tow. The cab started up immediately when John closed the door, and the crunch of gravel could be heard outside. Harry placed a box of tissues between them, shifting to place a hand on John's knee.

"Want me to take Hamish?" she questioned in a quiet voice.

John simply nodded, shifting the little boy to sit on his Aunt's lap. Hamish rested his head on Harry's chest, giving a little sniffle as he glanced up at his daddy.

John pulled out a tissue and wiped the boy's nose, brushing his fingers through Hamish's soft dark curls before pulling his hand away.

A lot of things hurt right now, but nothing seemed to compare to seeing Hamish like this.

The little boy was so sad and confused without his Papa around. It was like a switch had been flicked. Before, Hamish had been a delight. A bounding ball of energy who loved to play make believe. He'd run around the flat all day long, entertaining himself when his Papa and Daddy were both busy. He loved to go to the park, and he honestly enjoyed the company of children his own age, even if he'd been a bit socially inept in the beginning. He had been a wonderful child, but things just seemed different now. His little boy was dulled. He was sluggish and tired and thin and sad.

John always liked to think that Hamish was the perfect mix of his fathers, even if he was only biologically Sherlock's. The best of both of them. He had all of Sherlock's intelligence, he was far ahead of other's his age. Beyond his excellence in reading, writing, and maths, he loved to sit on his Papa's lap when he was experimenting. He was so inquisitive by nature, he always had questions to ask. He'd had a phase about a year ago when almost every word out of his mouth was part of a question. And because of everything Sherlock about him, he was reaching milestones he shouldn't have for several years, due mostly, of course, to his genius Papa. Sherlock had even been teaching him French. But with all the little boy's intelligence, he had so much love and kindness. He had everything good about Sherlock, but seemed to have bypassed everything bad. Sure, he was prone to temper tantrums and sulking and boredom, but so was every child his age. He was energetic and affectionate, unlike his often apathetic and seemingly icy Papa. He'd gotten over his social awkwardness pretty quickly as well, unlike his papa, how'd been horridly inept until the very end. But most of all, he'd managed to understand that he shouldn't flaunt his intelligence when it was inappropriate, something Sherlock had never managed to master. He was always quiet about his intelligence when he was around other children. It was still there, and sometimes it made itself obvious, but he hid it as best he could. And he never made fun of for it. He was happy hiding himself a little bit.

He was all Sherlock's inquisitive and intelligent nature and John's nurture, the nurture Sherlock had never gotten as a child.

John just hoped that that would be enough.

He hoped, silently, that Hamish would never have to deal with all the horrible things Sherlock had been through. He hoped Hamish would never have to deal with the torturous amount of bullying his father had once endured when he began school. John hoped that Hamish would find real friends because he needed them now more than ever.

Hamish wasn't happy anymore, he was a ghost.

John spent the rest of the cab ride thinking about Hamish and how he could help. Thinking about whether he should consider therapy, for the both of them, really. But no, give it a little more time. Hamish might bounce back when things evened out a little. He might get better as the grief faded, he might get better when he started school. Things might get better, John just had to give it time. Hamish might be back to smiling and giggling soon enough.

It started to rain when John, Hamish, and Harry exited the cab. It was just a drizzle, but it seemed appropriate. Let the weather match the mood, even if it wasn't so strange for it to be raining in England.

They made their way upstairs quickly, knowing Mrs. Hudson would already be there, along with the others.

John and Harry found them gathered in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had prepared the night before. John gave them a tense nod before moving to the sitting room. He deposited Hamish on the couch, helping the him out of his jacket and taking off his shoes before clicking on the his favorite TV program and lowering the volume. John gave the little boy a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving him and going into the kitchen, where he would actually have to face people.

The next few hours passed in some degree of silence. John drank several cups of tea, but didn't eat anything. Hamish followed suit, refusing his sandwich, even though it was his favorite, on the grounds that he just wasn't hungry. John let it slide, not knowing what else to do. Lestrade tried to make normal conversation, but failed miserably. Molly was jumpy as ever, nothing new, really, and ended up excusing herself early, not giving a solid reason. John didn't think anything of it. Mycroft excused himself early as well, claiming there was a lot of work to be done. John believed him, he was a very busy man. Before he left, the usually icy man made his way into the sitting room, kneeling in front of his nephew. The little boy, exhausted and curled up against the arm of the sofa buried under a thick blanket Mrs. Hudson had crocheted, looked over at his uncle with sad eyes. Mycroft pulled him into a tight hug and said goodbye, assuring his nephew that he would see him again soon. He promised. But Hamish still looked sad when his uncle left.

Lestrade was the last to leave, awkwardly talking about how he should really be getting home to his wife. Apparently they were back together. John followed him to the door, and Lestrade placed a heavy hand on his shoulder before glancing back into the sitting room.

"See you soon, yeah?" he asked.

"Of course," John replied, giving Lestrade a strained impression of a smile.

Lestrade called into the sitting room, addressing Hamish, "See you soon too, little man."

The little boy nodded slowly and gave a small yawn.

"And if you ever need anything, if you ever need a break from Hamish or anything like that...I'm here for you, alright?"

John nodded and Lestrade gave him one last pat on the shoulder before leaving.

Mrs. Hudson retired back to her flat soon after, giving both John and Hamish a tight hug before going back down. Harry went back downstairs to her newly rented basement flat after being assured by John that he was fine and that she didn't need to stay up any longer.

John sighed deeply out his nose and forced himself out of the chair, going over to Hamish.

"I think it's time for bed, buddy," he said, scooping the little boy up. Hamish didn't protest like he usually did. Bedtime was probably his least favorite time of day, save the story he almost always got.

John took him to his room, the room that had once belonged to Sherlock many years ago, and changed the little boy into his favorite pyjamas.

He tucked him in and flicked on the lamp on the boy's bedside table, sitting down on the small stool where John and Sherlock often sat when they read to him before bed.

"Want a story tonight?" John asked, carding his fingers through the boy's curls.

Hamish nodded and John got up and went about finding a book to read. There were several stacks littering the floor around Hamish's bed, all evidence of the sheer amount of books the child owned and read and loved, along with a bookcase full of them. John ended up picking up the Hobbit, which had been lying half read on the topmost shelf, corner of a page near the end folded down. A ghost of the smile played across his lips, he'd loved this book as a kid.

"How about this one?" he asked, showing Hamish the book and sitting down on the stool again.

Hamish eyes widened and he shook his head, "Uh-uh, I don't wanna read that one..."

John's brow furrowed, "Why not?"

Hamish went silent and sniffled, avoiding his Daddy's eyes and fiddling with his covers. He looked on the verge of tears.

"Hamish," John asked in a quiet but stern voice, "Why don't you want me to read this one?"

It took Hamish a few seconds, but he finally spoke up in a trembling voice, "Because...because Papa was reading it before and he does the voices best...and...and I just don't wanna read it anymore..."

John's heart tightened.

"It's okay Hamish. Of course. I won't read it if you don't want me to," he assured his son quickly, "But are you sure? You're almost to the end."

"Uh-huh." Hamish spoke simply, nodding his head softly and curling further under the blankets.

John placed the discarded book on the bedside table, instead plucking a random book from the floor and showing it to Hamish, who approved.

After the story and many kisses and assurances that he'd be there when Hamish woke up, John exited the little boy's bedroom, biting back tears of his own.

God, he hated seeing Hamish like this.

He sighed tiredly. He was exhausted, but he wasn't sure if he would be able to sleep.

He kept having nightmares, nightmares about Sherlock. Every night he woke up sweating, sometimes yelling and screaming out for Sherlock. Every night it was like he was seeing Sherlock fall all over again. It was horrible. Eventually, he'd decided to stop sleeping. He hadn't slept for over two days, he must look terrible. He probably would have regardless. But Sherlock had always managed to function on little sleep, so John was sure he could manage too.

He found himself in the kitchen, not really sure how he'd gotten there. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten at all today. He went over to the refrigerator but found it almost stone empty. He sighed, closing the door and going over to rummage in the cabinets for something. He was just about to pull some food out when his hand bumped against something. He drew that something out, realizing it was a bottle of wine. His raised his eyebrow tiredly. He didn't remember buying it, neither he or Sherlock had ever drank much. Both had had too much bad history with alcohol to drink enough to warrant a bottle of wine in the house. Must have been a gift from a case.

John knew that he should put the bottle away and forget about it. Shove it to the back of the cabinet again. But he found himself hesitating. What was the harm? It would probably help him sleep. He found himself plucking a glass from another cabinet and rummaging in another drawer for a corkscrew before he could even properly think about it. He made his way into the sitting room and sat down in his chair, facing the one that had once belonged to his husband. He poured himself a glass and held it for a minute, contemplating just dumping the bottle down the drain before raising it in something of a toast.

"Here's to you, love."

He took a sip and drained the glass quickly. Then he filled it again. And again. And again.

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**Well...this is sad. Please please leave a review, I'd love to hear what you have to think.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the wait guys :)**

**This story has been on the back burner for a bit, but I promise it will get finished**

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Harry Watson liked to think she understood her older brother.

She wanted to think she knew how he was going to take this whole situation.

Sure, she could never begin to understand how John must be feeling right now. Not a lot of people could. Losing a loved one is difficult, losing a spouse must be even harder, but to lose someone in such a way that John lost Sherlock...it must be horrible.

She couldn't imagine the amount of guilt he must feel for not knowing this would happen, for not being able to stop it.

She couldn't imagine the fear of the future either. John was, basically, a single parent now. He had to find a job, a real, proper one to compensate for the loss of income. But he still had to care for Hamish and be there for him and not turn out to be a workaholic who didn't have time for the sensitive little boy. He had a whole support group of people ready to help him if he needed it, Mrs. Hudson would certainly be willing to work with him on the rent, Mycroft was willing to lend him money if needed or spend time with his nephew and Lestrade would be there if John needed a break or if Hamish needed a sitter. Harry would be there for her brother too, for as long as he needed, to help him with all the daily things. But Harry knew John wouldn't take much of the help, not until it got so bad that he couldn't do things for himself. Her brother was extremely stubborn, he hated it when people assumed he needed help. If he needed it, he would come to that realization on his own and seek it out himself.

Of course, Harry was very, very aware that her brother would internalize all his pain. He would pretend he was fine, pretend like he didn't have a problem and that he didn't need anyone's help. He would let all the terrible thoughts he must be thinking run rampant in his mind, refusing to share them because nobody could come close to understanding them. He wouldn't want anyone to think he was crazy, they might try to take Hamish away. He would, instead, focus all his attention on Hamish, making sure the little boy was alright and ignore all his own needs. And he would run himself down in the process. He would stop sleeping, obviously because of the nightmares Harry knew would surface sooner rather than later. Nightmares had been a problem after he'd come home for Afghanistan, but they'd be so much worse now. He would stop eating too, but not on purpose. He would just forget or lose his appetite entirely. He would work himself to the point of collapse and then become angry when he was confronted about it.

She could try to shove him in the right direction. She could make sure he woke up at a decent hour every day after as full a night's sleep as he could manage. She could get him out of the house, even if it was just to do grocery shopping or take Hamish to the park. She could even try to get him to see his therapist again, maybe even get him into some sort of support group. Even if she could just get him to a therapist it would be fantastic. He'd could be medicated if need be, even if it were just pills to help him sleep. They'd get him help and he would be okay, eventually.

Harry thought she understood her brother. And because of that, there were a lot of things she would never have expected to happen, things she never thought she would find. One of them being her brother, passed out drunk in his armchair next to a mostly empty bottle of wine.

She was angry. God, she was pissed off. She almost couldn't believe it.

She'd just been coming upstairs to get John and Hamish woken up. She'd just wanted to get some breakfast in them, and get John out of the house to grocery shop considering there seemed to be no edible food in the flat. Maybe they'd even take Hamish to the park.

She'd had never in a million years expected to find John like this.

She walked over to him quickly, and roughly grabbed his good shoulder, tapping him on the face lightly in an attempt to get him to wake up.

"C'mon, wake up now," she practically barked, already grabbing the bottle and glass throw haphazardly on the floor.

John came around quickly, opening bleary, tired eyes. The moment he saw Harry's face though, he seemed to realize his mistake.

"God...Harry...I," he managed to mumble before Harry cut him off.

"Get up, now. Into the kitchen."

Out of the corner of her eye, Harry watched her brother shamble to the table and drop into one of the seats. She quickly ducked into the bathroom, snatching a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet before going back to the kitchen, wine bottle still in hand.

She tossed the pill bottle at John, and turned her attention to the sink. She couldn't hide the look of disgust on her face as she poured the remaining wine down the drain. All she got was a small trickle. So he drank the whole bottle then.

"H'rry...H'rry, m'sorry, I," John slurred before she rounded on him again.

She looked at him, really looked at him.

She didn't want to though.

He looked horrible sitting there at the table, clothes rumpled from a night sleeping in his chair. His shoulder were drooping, his head in his hands with his elbows splayed on the table. He was sad and tired and absolutely grey. It was like he'd aged years in the time since Sherlock had gone.

He looked on the verge of a breakdown. He had this entire week.

Hell, he _was_ on the verge of a breakdown.

Harry didn't like to think about it, really. She didn't like to think about how much Sherlock had meant to John, how much he had stabilized him. Her brother had come back from the war a broken man carrying an invisible weight on his back. He came home depressed and limping, refusing to even speak to Harry because her sobriety had been tenuous at best then. But Sherlock had come to him merely by chance and fixed him. That wonderful (but infuriating) man had saved her brother when she hadn't been able to. But her brother hadn't been able to save the man he loved.

She bit her lip. and turned back around, filling a glass of water for him.

God, she knew she shouldn't be so mad.

Her brother was in pain, right in front of her. He was in more pain than he had been in his entire life and she couldn't do anything to fix it.

She didn't want her brother to end up like she had.

And, by comparison, any pain she had felt in her life paled in comparison to the monster on her brother's back.

This was a million times worse than when they were teenagers, when Harry had, at least in the eyes of others, forced their family apart with her damned sexuality. She hadn't wanted to come out to her parents, it had just happened. It had been an accident, she'd only been fifteen. John had been seventeen. He had known, he'd found out at school amidst all the rumors after she'd attended a certain party with a certain someone who wasn't a guy. He hadn't cared, he loved her just the same. But he convinced her not to tell their parents, he already knew how they'd take it. So she avoided the topic altogether, she knew her father would hate her for it. Relatives would constantly bemoan her lack of a boyfriend, but she would always brush it off. She kept it a secret, kept it hidden. She lied to keep her various girlfriends in the dark, and somehow, she'd convinced John to lie too.

But their parents had found out anyway, and everything had gone to hell. She'd forced John to chose between his father and his mother, who'd sided with Harry on this one occasion. And when John made his opinions on her sexuality clear, their mother divorced their father and everything should have been fine.

But it wasn't. The damage had been done.

Their father started drinking after that. He ended up drinking himself into an early grave. He'd died several, several years after the divorce. Drunk driving.

She started drinking too. A lot.

She drank to avoid facing the fact that she'd torn her parent's apart. She hated the fact that she forced her brother to make that decision, forced him to move schools his final year when they had to move to stay with their mom.

She had hated herself. She shut people out and so began the rift between the two of them.

But she couldn't let John do that. She couldn't let her brother shut people out and wallow in his pain. She couldn't let him drown himself in alcohol like she had.

So, finally, she let a deep breath out her nose and turned around, glass of water in hand. She dropped down into the seat across from her brother and quietly grabbed the pill bottle, shaking two out. She nudged her brother's shoulder and proffered the pills. John took them thankfully and downed them, draining the glass of water. He still didn't meet his sister in the eye.

Harry grabbed her brother's wrists. "John...please look at me," she practically pleaded.

And he did, after a few silent seconds, his eyes swimming with tears.

"You listen to me right now, okay?" she started, trying to keep her voice from trembling, "You cannot, absolutely _cannot _do this John. You can't do this to me or anyone else, and you certainly can't do this to Hamish. He needs you now more than ever. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how much it hurts, you _cannot _go down that road, okay? Trust me, I know what it's like. You cannot give up, you cannot let go, you cannot shut down again. You know better than to do that. Are you listening to me?"

John nodded.

"Because if you don't stop this," she said, gesturing to the wine-stained sink, "I will take Hamish away. Do you understand? I will get him out of here, and you won't see him again until you get help. I know Mycroft would agree with me and I know he would help."

And with that, John started crying, really crying. Harry hadn't wanted to say that, she hadn't but she needed to. John needed to understand what he would lose if he kept at this, he needed a real consequence because she'd never had one herself. And it wasn't one far out of the realm of possibility either. If John kept getting worse, if he stopped being able to function, whether it be because of alcoholism or a breakdown, they would take Hamish away in a heartbeat. He was such a sweet little boy, he didn't deserve to be stuck in a house where his daddy couldn't care for him properly.

Harry got up and went around the table, grabbing one of the numerous boxes of tissues that littered the flat. She pulled a few out, handing them to her brother and putting her arm around him.

"I know it's hard," she said, squeezing her brother's shoulder, "But you have to keep going. I don't want to take Hamish away, I think he needs you, but just know that I won't hesitate if it comes to that."

Her brother nodded, wiping his eyes and taking one last shuddering breath before composing himself again.

"We'll talk about this more later. Want me to go wake Hamish up?" she asked.

"Sure," he managed to choke out, pushing the box of tissues away and leaning back in his chair.

She nodded, shaking his shoulder slightly as she left.

When she entered Hamish's room, the little boy was still asleep, curled under the duvet and snuggling his stuffed bear. He looked so sweet, she thought, smiling to herself. He looked so much more at ease in sleep.

She slowly made her way over to the boy's side, leaning down and giving him a little shake to the shoulder.

"Time to wake up," she whispered in his ear, smoothing the wild head of hair.

The little boys' yawned wide and rubbed his eyes with small fists, looking blearily up at his auntie.

"D'you need help getting dressed?" she asked, already picking clothes out of the wardrobe.

"Uh uh," Hamish replied, shaking his head, "And I wanna pick out my own clothes."

She sighed, ruffling his hair, "Of course handsome. Come out for breakfast when you're dressed. You and I are going out shopping today."

Hamish nodded and gave his auntie a small smile, already weaving his way through the stacks of books to the wardrobe.

She left the room smiling, glad Hamish seemed to have gotten some proper rest. He'd even smiled a little, a sight that warmed her heart after seeing the little boy so miserable the past few days.

Of course, she knew they were still a ways away from normal. Things were going to be bad for a while, and there was a lot of work to be done.

But that didn't mean she couldn't hope today would be a good day.

Things would get better, eventually.

* * *

**Please let me know what you think. I'm also open to suggestions.**

**Next up- some Hamish and Mycroft time :)**


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